Fin de Siècle
by Sigridhr
Summary: Loki's favourite realm to slip away to, when he needs some time on his own, is Midgard. What he wasn't expecting was to run into Darcy. Victorian!AU. Written for the Darcy/Loki Smutfic Exchange.


Written for the Darcy/Loki smutfic exchange on Tumblr this week.

**Warnings: **Victorian AU, bodice ripping, feet, spanking, **explicit sex** (I'm really not kidding).

Based on the following prompt: _"I would love a historical AU smut where Loki and Darcy are living in the Victorian era. Maybe he's her tutor and he ends up having to spank her. Or something Fairy Tale related. Or if you applied the plot of a Disney movie to Loki and Darcy, only with smut?"_

I took some liberties. There is a bit of Disney, and definitely a lot of Victorian AU.

Written for Avarosier. I hope this was at least sort of what you were looking for!

And a huge thank you to Freyjas for pointing out an obvious mistake. Fixed now. :P

* * *

**New York, 1st January, 1901**

Midgard had a remarkable amount of charm, for a backwards over-populated hovel. It was by far his favourite realm to visit, whenever he had the desire to slip away quietly from the halls of Asgard – which was increasingly often, of late.

There was a tremendous, blind vivacity to the denizens of Midgard. It was a realm full of the willfully ignorant, who had cast aside all knowledge of other realms, cutting themselves off from the aid of Asgard and stumbling blindly, almost throwing themselves haphazardly, at a future they couldn't even agree on.

But they were so bizarrely _happy_ about it. Their lives flickered in and out of existence like fireworks – burning brightly but briefly.

Loki found them endlessly entertaining.

Though in all of his visits to Midgard, he'd rarely seen them as rambunctious (and uniformly inebriated) as he had this night. It had been a simple matter to alter his clothing to suit the local dress – though he'd passed several people wearing masks already, and he was starting to wonder precisely what the nature of the celebration was.

An arm was slung abruptly over his shoulder, as someone – reeking foully of whisky and wobbling precariously – leaned into him, belting out tunelessly at the top of his lungs, "should _old_ acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?"

In a single, seemingly effortless move, he grabbed the man's wrist, and spun him around, pinning his arm behind his back as he sputtered in surprise and indignation. Loki gave him a brisque shove to the curb, where he landed nearly face-first in a pile of horse dung.

It was then that Loki saw _her_.

She was standing a way's up the street, outside a well-lit and bustling house, her arm still resting on the open carriage door, staring at him. He could see her eyebrows raised over the dark green mask she wore, and the jewels at her neck and in her dark hair seemed to glitter in the light of the gas lamps. After a long moment, she moved, shutting the door to the landau and, with another glance over her shoulder at him, she turned and walked into the house.

There was not even the slightest question in his mind: he followed. He fashioned a mask for himself, green and gold, and secured it carefully over his face before stepping across the threshold.

He was seized almost instantly by a large, burly man with short, curly red hair who grabbed one of his hands in both of his own, wringing it with an almost violent enthusiasm.

"You're late!" the man said, beaming under his mask, which featured a particularly hideous hawk-like protrusion for a nose. "They're all reading tea leaves in the parlour."

Before Loki could ask how precisely one "read" tea leaves, he was manhandled into what he assumed was the parlour, pressed down onto a settee, and a cup of tea forced into his hands. He stared down at it in mild bewilderment.

"One can read the leaves much easier once the tea is drunk," said a soft, teasing voice next to him.

It was the girl from outside, cradling a teacup in one hand and smiling at him in wry amusement.

"And what do the tea leaves have to say?" he asked, taking a sip and screwing up his face in disgust. Midgard always had the most vile food.

"Well that depends on you, does it not?" she replied. "Miss Darcy Lewis," she added, holding out a hand, palm down. "I know we aren't meant to use names at these things, but I find one's conversation is much improved if one knows the name of of one's partner, don't you?"

He took her gloved hand in his, wondering precisely what the custom was. Out of indecision, he wound up just holding it awkwardly for a long moment.

"Lygismidr," he said, and her eyebrows shot up above the top of her mask again.

She pulled her hand from his, letting out a chuckle. "Well, may you have good fortune for the coming year, Mr _Lygismidr_." Her Norse pronunciation left a great deal to be desired, as far as Loki was concerned.

"If this is anything to go by," he said flatly, looking down at his tea, "I should say the odds are slim."

She laughed in surprise, steadying the teacup with her other hand as it threatened to spill onto her dress. "I believe Madame Benegenaria would say that the price of seeing the future is bitter tea in the present," she said.

"And a great deal of coin, no doubt," Loki said, wryly, looking sceptically over Madame Benegenaria, who was encased in an absurdly voluminous beaded gown and a turban, and was peering into an empty teacup and making a 'tsk tsk' noise.

Darcy was muffling a laugh behind her gloved hand, staring resolutely at the floor as her shoulders shook in suppressed amusement.

"What do you see in your future?" he asked. "Mint?"

"I believe it may be Ceylon," she said, the corners of her lips twitching in amusement.

Madame Benegenaria suddenly bustled over in a cloud of patchouli and bangles, and leaning into Loki's personal space, her kohl-lined eyes wide. "You must drink it," she said. "It is bad luck to begin a new year without a fortune told – especially this one."

"Why especially this one?" Loki asked, leaning as far away from her as he could politely get away with, his shoulder brushing Darcy's. He felt his skin prickle in excitement at the contact, sending goosebumps running down his arm as his mouth went suddenly dry.

Darcy was frowning at him in bemusement. "It's the _fin de siècle_," she said. "The dawn of the twentieth century."

"Is it?" Loki said mildly. "And _this_ is what you have chosen to usher it in with? Remarkable."

Madame Benegenaria glared at him. "Do not laugh at fate, sir," she said. "For I have seen much from your cup already, and there is great misfortune in your future."

"No doubt," Loki said.

"Don't tease," Darcy said chidingly, leaning into him as she peered into his cup. He could feel the soft lump of her breast pressing against his arm, and smell the faint scent of lavender on her skin. He swallowed again, trying to resist the urge to lean forward and just bury his face in her hair. She was asking the fortune teller something about tea leaves, but he could barely hear their conversation over the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears, and the unbearable, wonderful sensation of the line of her body pressed up against his.

He had never put much stock in Thor's theory that prolonged abstinence resulted in it all spilling over unexpectedly, but it was hard to argue with the fact that he was starting to grow hard in his trousers just from _proximity_ to her. And he had clearly gone far too long without sex if he was reduced to wanting to smell her hair.

He sat very, very still and tried very, very hard to think of the sight of Volstagg devouring an entire pig all on his own and not the way Darcy's chest moved when she talked, or the fact that her fingers were resting on the settee just scant inches from the outside of his upper thigh.

"Drink," Madame Benegenaria said again, grasping his hand and startling him so that the tea very nearly spilt out of the cup and onto his lap. She scowled at him.

He downed the rest of it in a single, vile gulp, leaving the leaves behind.

"Hold the cup in your left hand," Madame Benegenaria said, "and swirl it clockwise three times."

Feeling ridiculous, he did so. As soon as he was finished, the cup was snatched from his hand and overturned on the saucer with a loud clink. Then, slowly, as if she were lifting the lid on a priceless artefact, Madame Benegenaria lifted the cup and peered down into it.

"Oh!" she said, clasping one hand, adorned with no fewer than seven rings, to her breast melodramatically. "Oh, poor tidings indeed."

"What is it?" Darcy asked, breathlessly, leaning across Loki to look at the cup. The hand on the settee inched forwards, her fingers slipping under his thigh, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Grave tidings, grave tidings," Benegenaria said in a low, anxious whisper. "The curtain – a great secret will be revealed, the arrow – bad news awaits you, the knife – a great parting, great sorrow. You will lose someone close to you." She paused dramatically, looking at Loki imploringly. Her hands shook and the feather on the top of her turban wobbled perilously.

Loki looked unimpressed.

"But that is not the worst news!" she said, grasping his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. "No, for there is also the rat – a traitor in your midst!" Her eyes flew open wide, as if she were awaiting shrieks and fainters at that pronouncement.

Darcy sat back, looking at Loki with an expression he couldn't interpret through the mask.

"It does not sound as if I shall enjoy the twentieth century," he said blandly. "However, thank you for your input."

Madame Benegaria scowled, gathering her skirts about her in great, heaping folds. "It is a foolish man who mocks the fortune teller," she said, sticking her nose up in the air. "For only a fool casts wisdom aside when it is freely given."

"Should any be given to me, rest assured that I will consider it fully," Loki said, and Darcy let out a badly repressed snort that she tried to pass off as a cough. Madame Benegenaria turned, in a furious swirl of bangles and patchouli, and stalked over to an unsuspecting couple in the corner.

"You shouldn't tease so," Darcy said.

"It is nonsense," Loki replied. "I see no reason to indulge it."

"It's polite," Darcy pointed out.

"Reading the future through tea leaves," Loki said with a snort. "Preposterous."

"Yes, yes," Darcy said, indulgently, "I should have pegged you for a sceptic. Nevertheless, I agree: there is no way to see the future –"

"– the future can only be divined through rune magic," Loki said at the same time.

Darcy let out a laugh. "The irony of that sentiment entirely escapes you, doesn't it?" she said.

Loki scowled.

"Come, come," she replied. "I am only teasing." She stood up, brushing out her skirts elegantly. "I believe," she said, "that we have fulfilled the necessity of having our fortunes read, and it is now time that you asked me to dance."

He looked around the room. "There isn't much space," he said. "Or much music."

She gave him an incredulous look. "The dancing is in the ballroom," she said, like she couldn't quite believe she had to say it at all. "I haven't a card – or, rather, I've lost it – I'm a bit silly like that sometimes."

Loki wasn't sure what she meant by that, so he ignored it. He stood, adjusting his trousers surreptitiously as he did so, and offered an elbow to her as he'd seen other so. She smiled, wrapping her slim hand around the crook of his elbow, and subtly tugging him along.

The dance floor was not over-crowded, and Loki watched the dancers carefully, trying to learn the moves well enough that he could replicate them. The steps seemed straightforward enough.

"Shall we?" he said, leading her out onto the floor and duplicating the position of the other dancers. She was warm, even through the fabric of her dress and the corset beneath, and her cheeks were flushed pink. He got the hang of the steps quickly, falling into a mindless pattern as they moved in a wide circle around the floor.

She was inching towards him, slowly, closing the distance between them as they moved. There was something incredibly graceful and fluid about the way she moved – exerting small pressure on his hand and shoulder to guide him, leading the dance. He was content to let her do so, and she flashed a small smile at him – just the corner of her lip turning upwards.

The high collar of her dress just seemed to emphasise the line of her neck, as she turned her head to the side, her back perfectly straight.

He _wanted_ her – more than he could ever remember wanting anyone before. He wasn't aware of anything other than the small line of negative space between them, which seemed to be charged. His hand clasped around hers, his other over her shoulder blade. He could feel the boning in her corset, and he wanted to rip it off – to remove everything that was between them and press himself up against her –

"It's almost midnight," she said, stopping the dance, but not releasing his hand. "They are counting."

Sure enough, he heard the room begin to chorus "Ten, nine, eight!"

Darcy began counting with them, smiling widely. Quietly he began to join in on "four, three, two... one."

To his complete surprise, Darcy's hand reached up, tangling her hands in his hair and pulled him down for a kiss. After a moment of frozen shock, he responded, wrapping his hands around her waist and pulling her close, as he slipped his tongue into her mouth. She let out a low, whimpering sound, and he bent her backwards slightly as her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling even as she pressed herself against him.

He was well on his way to hard now, utterly mindless of everyone else in the room and the not inconsiderable number of disapproving stares they were receiving. Her tongue curled around his, and she sucked on it lightly, and his knees nearly _buckled_ as his fingers tightened painfully on her waist.

And then, as abruptly as it had started, she pulled back, panting. Her cheeks were bright red, and her lips swollen, and he swallowed, trying to get his pulse back under control.

To his complete and utter shock, she simply muttered "sorry," and then turned and fled from the room.

As soon as he'd regained motor control over his legs, he dashed after her, leaving a sea of reproving murmurs in his wake. He made his way down the hallway, checking the other rooms quickly as he passed for any sign of her.

He stumbled over something, nearly falling to his face, but catching himself on the wall just in time. He picked it up, and examined it under the gaslight.

It was a shoe – in fact, he was fairly certain it was _Darcy's_ shoe. And it was curiously not on her foot.

He hurried outside, catching site of the carriage right away and running up to it. "Wait," he shouted to the driver, "her shoe."

The door to the cab opened, and Darcy stuck her head out. "Thank you," she said, holding out her hand, "but I really must go. My father will be expecting me home."

"You're _leaving_?" Loki asked incredulously, still clutching the shoe.

Darcy blushed bright red to the roots of her hair. "My father is expecting me home," she said.

"At least let me return this," Loki replied, bending down by her feet and holding the shoe in the palm of his hand. "I should like to say goodbye."

He saw her swallow, and watched the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she, excruciatingly slowly, slid back on the seat until she was resting against the far door, and lifted the hem of her skirt enough to bare her foot, extending it out towards him in clear invitation.

He didn't need to be told twice – he stepped into the landau and shut the door behind him, pulling down the blinds.

She looked wide-eyed and nervous. "What will the driver think?"

"Nothing, if he values his job," Loki replied, softly, kneeling in the limited floor space between the seats. He gently took her ankle in his hand, resting her heel in the palm of his hand and gently, slowly, running his thumb along the outside arch of her foot. She shuddered so violently he felt it.

He splayed his fingers, moving agonisingly slowly, up the back of her calf and back down, and then ran his thumb up the outside of her foot again, feeling the warmth of her skin through the stocking. Her eyes fluttered shut and she made a muffled noise, her head falling back to rest against the side of the carriage.

He pressed his lips to the ball of her foot, his tongue darting out to lick a wet spot on the stocking, and _moaned_, sounding indecently loud and wanton in the closed, quiet air of the landau. He shifted on the floor, his trousers uncomfortably tight.

He kissed her foot again, trailing kisses and nips down the line of her foot, and biting at her ankle pulling the fabric of her stocking with his teeth. She squirmed on the bench, her toes coming to a sharp point as the muscles in her leg tightened, defining the shape of her calf. He kissed that too.

He folded up her skirt as he trailed up her leg, placing open-mouthed kisses to the inside of her knee, trailing his fingers in wandering patterns up her thighs. Her legs spread, one hooked over his left shoulder, the other on the floor by his right hip, and she slouched down low on the bench, her hand reaching out to tangle in his hair, rubbing gentle circles against his scalp with her fingers.

He kissed up the inside of her thighs until he reached the top of her stocking, and he hooked his fingers under it, pulling it back and off her leg and dropping it to the floor.

Her lips were parted, and she was staring at him with a mixture of open want and a hint of nervousness. He grinned, and pulled the other stocking off, and then ran his hands up her legs until he reached the ends of her knickers where they stopped, about mid-thigh. He slipped his fingers under the hem, splaying them wide and she gasped, squirming and falling even lower in the seat towards him. He gave a light tug to the knickers, and she lifted her hips obediently, allowing him to pull them down.

She was watching him, as he sat back on his heels between her legs. Her hands untangled in his hair, and her hand moved to trace the line of his jaw with her first two fingers. When she reached his chin, she turned her hand palm down and hooked her first finger on his bottom lip, pressing slightly until her nail touched his teeth. He opened his mouth, pulling her finger in and swirling his tongue around it, and he could see her breathing speed up as she lifted her chin, looking down at him.

He raised his hands and placed them on her inner thighs, rubbing circles with his thumbs in rhythm with the motion of his tongue as it swirled around her finger. She licked her bottom lip, and he sucked _hard_, before letting his lips go slack.

She grabbed the back of his head, pulling him forwards – and he was only too happy to oblige.

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss the inside of her thigh, nipping at the skin there as his fingers reached up and traced the wet line of her cunt. He swirled his thumb over her clit, and she gasped, the hand at the back of his head clenching tight enough to pull on his hair. He licked her, swirling his tongue over her clit and then slipping it into her cunt.

She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, biting down on it to keep quiet.

He kept up that same, maddening rhythm, working two fingers into her and flicking his tongue over her clit until her leg clenched tight over his shoulder, her heel digging into his back, and then slowly, languidly swirling it around, until she started a litany of wordless, plaintive sounds. Her hand clenched and unclenched in his hair, over and over again.

He brought her close to the edge again, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, rubbing her clit until she squirmed, her hips rising up off the bench as she tried to bring him impossibly closer, just that little bit further. She moaned, still biting the back of her hand, her brows drawn tightly together and her eyes closed, and he reached forward to grab hold of her hips with his spare hand, picking up the pace just that little bit faster until she came with a shudder, curling towards him and cradling his head gently until she collapsed back against the wall of the carriage panting, her leg still hanging limp over his shoulder.

He sat back and wiped his mouth, and she watched him through half-closed eyes, a dazed and lazy smile on her face. Her gaze traveled pointedly and slowly down his body, and he shivered, every square inch of his skin prickling in anticipation and pure, unadulterated _want_.

She unhooked her leg from over his shoulder, sitting up to rest her foot against his clavicle, and then slowly, oh so very slowly, trailing it down his front. She hooked her toes under the collar of his jacket and pushed it off, and he pulled it off the other arm and tossed it aside.

She let her foot drift lower, swirling around the buttons on his vest with her toes, and he leant back on his hands, looking straight up at her. She was staring back, barely blinking, and he found he couldn't look away.

Then, slowly, she let her foot drop to rest lightly on his penis. And just held it there.

His eyes fluttered closed, willing her with every fibre of his being to move. Then, gently, she rocked forward and back, pressing her foot along the hard line of his penis, and he actually _groaned_ aloud in relief. She repeated the motion, rocking forward and back again, and his hips rose up pressing himself harder into her. She splayed her toes out and curled them around the shaft, pressing and releasing, and all he could hear was the sound of his own ragged breathing.

"Stop teasing," he said, unevenly.

"Make me," she said, rocking forwards and backwards again.

In a sudden, single motion, he grabbed her ankle, pulling her towards him until she tumbled into his arms, and then rising to his feet and spinning them around until he was seated on the bench. He pulled her into his lap, giving her backside a loud swat.

She looked startled, her arms braced on either side of his head against the wall, and he stopped, waiting. She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against his and breathing deeply.

"Is that it?" she asked, pulling back and daring him to do it again.

He didn't need to be told twice. There wasn't much force behind it, given the slightly awkward angle, but he was considerably stronger than he looked, and it was enough to make a loud, smacking noise, and send her stumbling into his lap, her knees on either side of his thighs.

She captured his lips in a hard kiss, so hard their teeth clacked together, and he grabbed her waist and pulled her flush against him. They rocked back and forth, as he brought his hips up in a desperate bid for friction, and she sucked on his bottom lip, nipping it with her teeth.

She ground down on him, moving her hips in tight circles, her hands clenching tight handfuls of his shirtfront. He scrabbled at the back of her dress, pulling at it trying to reach the skin, and he heard something rip. She pulled back, reaching around to help undo the buttons.

He very nearly tore them all off, but she whispered "please, don't", and instead he struggled with them all, in a tight little row down her back, his fingers shaking. She tugged at his collar and waistcoat, undoing his buttons and pulling at his trousers, succeeding at displacing, but not removing, his clothing.

It probably would have been more effective if they'd stopped kissing.

She laughed as his collar sprang loose, whacking her in the chin, and he undid his cuffs, tossing them aside, followed by the shirt. She stood up, stepping out of her dress, and pulling her chemise over her head, before dropping to her knees between his legs and undoing the buttons of his trousers.

She looked up at him, her hair falling wildly around her shoulders, a strand of it sticking up ludicrously in a wide arc on the top of her head. He reached out to softly cup her cheek, tracing along the line of her cheekbone with his thumb. She closed her eyes, turning her face into his palm, before placing a kiss to the middle of it.

Then she looked back up at him and grinned widely, before leaning forwards and taking his penis into her mouth.

He arched back, his hand going instinctively to rest on the back of her head, and he let out a low moan. She swirled her tongue around the head, sucking gently before releasing him and running her tongue from the base of his penis in a long line along the underside to the top.

He looked down at her, panting, before tugging at her hair gently, pulling her up. "No," he said, "I want to –"

She moved until she was sitting back on the bench leaning on her her elbows, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him towards her. He leaned over her, kissing her long and hard. She could feel the head of his penis pressing against her cunt, and she locked her ankles behind his back, lifting her legs over his hip bones and holding him close. He looked down at her questioningly, and she nodded.

And then he pressed into her. She pressed her forehead into his shoulder, drawing herself as close to him as she possibly could. He rocked forwards, and she could feel his breaths, quick and short, in her hair.

He stayed still then, for a long moment, his head bowed.

"Move," she said, when she couldn't stand it any more. "Please."

He pulled out of her and back in, and she reached up with one arm above her head to brace herself against the wall. He started moving in earnest, setting a rhythm just a little slower than she wanted, and she squeezed his waist with her legs, rocking up to meet him.

His thrusts started to become erratic, and she could feel his legs shaking, and she was so, so damn close herself. She ran her nails up his back, and he shivered pressing his forehead into the joint where her neck met her shoulder, thrusting into her with four sharp bursts, before going still, panting against her skin.

She felt tingly all over, and sticky as their sweat cooled on their skin. Loki wrapped his arms around her and rolled them so that she was on her side, half splayed on top of him, her head tucked comfortably against his shoulder. His fingers tangled languidly in her hair, pulling out individual curls and twirling them around his index finger.

"Happy New Year," she said, softly.

"Yes," he replied. "It is."


End file.
